The Arsonist
- Erin McCluskey
- Aug 1
- 1 min read
Guilt is a brush fire,
charring her tissue paper skin.
The burn of blame,
the scorch of shame,
like gasoline,
stokes the flames.
From somewhere beyond the abyss,
a silvery voice,
like snow,
arrives quietly on a whisper,
abruptly evaporating into the embers.
The sound of grace often visits the self-imprisoned.
Hawking up the ash that had made a home in her lungs,
she wipes the toxins from her lips.
“I am good,” she utters through hot tears,
at long last, drinking in clean air.
The truth had risen up.
The smoke, dissipating.
Deliverance had been there all along,
waiting patiently.
An old friend buried in the marrow of her bones.
